


DE:  Burning Fires

by Quinnacin



Category: Call of Duty (Video Games)
Genre: Enemies to Lovers, Kissing, M/M, Major Character Injury, Possible Death(s), Slow Burn, please read the notes, sorry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-21
Updated: 2017-08-23
Packaged: 2018-12-18 01:00:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11863359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quinnacin/pseuds/Quinnacin
Summary: Edward seemed intact, even pristine of the young American's insults thrown his way. His palm sat beneath his chin, resting on his other forearm with the needle still in his fingers.Tank's eyes remained on the strand of thread hanging from the needle, although he spoke to the German, "But you do not remember me?"!! NOTES !!





	1. DE:  Awakening

**Author's Note:**

> this is an old work i discovered i somehow still had on wp, so i decided to stick with it for a bit.
> 
> Okay so for anyone that's read this before, something went wrong and it deleted my work, BF. I have a backup, so here it is again . . And again, many apologies?? 
> 
> This problem has occurred for me when I was on some years back, so again sorry, hahha--
> 
> \- K

Not a sound pierced his hearing, nor his eyesight which was simply produced not one small light. He sensed that no other thing was with him in that room. Well, at least, something that was not alive and well;  breathing.

That's not to say he is incapable of recognising their presence. He would know they are there, including his sense of reliability and just the fact he knew what they smelt, and sounded like.

Had he felt so nauseous, what abide in his stomach would be thrown from his lips, rancid liquid and maybe a few drops of painful blood.

He clutched his stomach, resisting the urge to vomit over the dreading constant pain in his head. The lack of sleep had taken it's toll on him, more of his body rather his overfilled mind and thoughts, causing his movement and actions to be slow and rather strenuously forced.

Tank blinks, just a few times. He wasn't comparatively sure whether he'd been asleep, or just knocked out senseless.

Yes . . That might, supposedly, have been the perpetually twinge in his head, and forming bump he felt on the side near his ears with his fingers. It hurt, too, clenching his teeth as he could feel something wet drip down his palm.

The American simply sat, harking up on the sound of soft drips hitting the cool, tiled floor that could have been his own blood. For, what else could it have been? The tears he could feel, but wasn't veritably there?

Maybe it was a leak in the roof.

Or maybe, the tiny yet vast feasibility he strained himself and his mind to focus on something, anything to ignore the shudder-some logic that he could be anywhere in the cold abyss of Austria, hordes of zombies and maybe those loathesome panzers just prowling around whilst he did not have his weapon.

He decided to get up;  unfolding his legs that, somehow, were folded beneath him while lying down. His legs ached, pushing up his weight by his palms, standing up steadily.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," muttered a voice, at least some feet from the man.

Startled, Tank turns his head towards the voice. So he was not alone, and for that, was pissed at how weak and anxious he was to at least feel or take a proper heed in some sort of velocity.

"You should sit. It would not be wise for you to stand immediately . . Not after what happened."

". . What?" asked the American, more to himself rather to the voice that, likely initiated from man much bigger than himself. He held himself the need to again reply back with a question, of how it wasn't relatively safe to keep the room pitched, "What the fuck happened?"

It was hesitant, at first. The man obviously didn't want to comply with the question, instead, remarked in an easeful voice, "Come. You should get your wounds treated."

"Wounds? How do you --?"

"It was not a question, American," spoke the man stiffly, as a loud creak followed his nearly threatening tone. Tank bellowed, figuring that the rigid tautness embarked him to ignore his trembling state and bloody gashes to follow him, whoever he was, using the slight echoes.

Tank took step after step, foot in front of the other.

And, to his dismay, a sudden beam of light mustered his eyes to squint;  a hand covering over his pair of baby blues to prevent any blindness, for it did not matter to see what remained in the world, anyway.

Blinking, Dempsey swiftly pulled his hand away to scrutinise his surroundings. It was, to say in the most simplest, a place he had never seen before, most likely outside the spawn in Der Einsendrache, Austria.

The climate was surprisingly warm, touching his arms and face delicately. His jacket, grenades and extra ammo stuffed into a strap weren't on him, leaving him only in his blood-stained gray T-shirt, his dark pants and ankle boots.

Tank rubbed his burning eyes, fingers hilting as a rub down his chin, scraping against his short mustache. In front of him, a large auburn couch that looked comforting. He flipped the switch;  turning around to see a flight of stairs ( he hadn't ever remembered climbing ) that led into a pitched-dark room leading to nothingness, likely whereas he came from.

A clearing of the throat came besides him, a few feet off to which Dempsey looked to curiously. The man had a burly stance, thick curly beard mixing with his mustache with his brown eyes seeming to soften just as the sight of the American, oddly.

He stared down at the American, for he was much taller. A frown pulled down his lips, the sight of Tank just a bit to much before he looked away for just some seconds, looking back after.

"Are you alright, comrade?" He asked, voice laced with a thick Russian accent.

Tank opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Instead, he grabbed his stomach, shirt preferably, out of pain. His brow furrowed. "I'm okay," he mustered out a tiny reply.

The Russian nodded, but he knew it was a straightforward lie. Did he approve, though? "Come . . sit."

Dempsey waisted no time in stumbling forward, tripping over his own feet in the process, eyelids slamming closed. The pain never touched his face, instead some softish surface. A face full of it.

"What the fuck . . ?" He glanced up warily, palms pressed also against the surface that was a chest.

"Be more careful," told the Russian, lifting him slightly before setting him down on the couch carefully as if no biggie. "You could have gotten injured."

"I already am," grunted Tank.

"You do not need to be further damaged."

"Is he o-kay?" asked a man, belonging to a slightly choppy Japanese accent. The man also taller than Tank, and older too as he was scrutinised by the American, stepping into the room.

". . Alive." answered the Russian man, looking between the Japanese man and Tank, switching glances. "He's alive."

"Of course I'm fucking alive," hissed Dempsey, glancing at both of the men.

The Russian and Japanese looked at each other, seeming to communicate through looks and flicks of the eye. The long-haired man sighed, speaking softly as he turned to stare at Dempsey, "Do you know who we are, Dempsey?"

Tank scrunched up his face. "No. How the fuck do you know my name?"

Both of the men's faces paled, ghostlike. Tank gave them a puzzled look, his hands oddly feeling alone and empty. Had he been holding something before everything had pitched?

"Rell," spoke the Japanese, taking a foot forward as the American took leaned back, "I am Takeo, and that is Nikolai. Surely you might remember us?"

Dempsey shook his head, lifting an eyebrow. "I've never seen you before. And how the hell do you know my name?"

Nikolai lingered there, giving the impression in distress. His gloved hands lifted to touch Tank, who flinched at the sight of his hand. Tank stared up at him, a slight menacing glare. "What?"

"Sorry. I am late . . " apologized, yet another man but with a german accent. He held two large boxes, some items inside the box created sounds that drew attention. The German set down both boxes onto the work table across the couch. He quickly turned, hands wiping the blood on a handkerchief.

He eyed the American;  the color in his face drained, his emerald green eyes widened. "Dempshey, you -- are you alright?"

"What the fuck." Tank hastily stood, backing up from all three men staring at him. "Who the fuck are you? How do you know my name?"

The German's face appeased, hand reaching out to grab his arm. "Dempshey --"

"Don't fucking touch me!" barked the American, pulling both arms away, staring into the green pair of eyes with his own blue ones.

The tall German pulled his own hand back, to avoid possibly being smacked away. The sour marine most likely owned a short-fuse, and that could quickly be draught up the pipe, and down the drain would seep any hopes of actually getting to know the man.

But, he was not afraid, rather, wanted to keep the American calm. And he had Tak and Nik to control him if he didn't.

The German sighs, bare hand raking back through his dark locks as he eyes the wary American. "I, am Doctor Edvard Richtofen."

Tank said nothing.

"Now, you should really sit down, Dempshey. I need to stitch your vounds closed."

The young man slowly returned to couch, sitting down leisurely beneath the gazes of all three men. Had he known why these men knew his name?

"So, Dempshey," spoke Edward, sliding the lid from atop the grey box and putting it aside, picking out some thread, a needle, cotton balls, napkins, and bottle of alcohol that caught Nikolai's attention. Takeo managed to stop him from snatching the bottle, and the two departed from the room. "Tell me vhat you remember."

"How about you tell me how you know my name?" questioned back Tank, eyeing the German suspiciously, and also the needle. 

He knew it himself;  although he could not feel the pain for it was already numb, he had many tears, rips, gashes, burns and much more, including the damned bump on his head that he did not know where it came from, nor the fellow wounds. What nerve-wrecked him most was that alcohol and needle.

Edward stared at him for a few seconds, quickly looking back down to his needle in his fingers. "You have amnesia, Dempshey."

"Amnesia? No, I don't," replied Tank, scrutinizing his arm completely marked with scars, burns, and some bites stained with blood. One cut particularly attracted his attention, and also the German's.

"You deny," he poked he thread inside the hole of the needle, "because you have amnesia;  your minds thinks you don't, but your body knows you do, for you are not as violent as you would be if you did not know me, truly."

Tank, perplexed, stared at the doctor. A sudden twinge in his stomach snapped;  had he been so caught up with waking up, dealing with those odd men and how they knew his name and he had amnesia, to realize that burning pain that harmed his body. 

Did he know them? The men that were, clearly, trying to save his life? Maybe he owed them.

Dempsey grasped his clothed stomach in pain, a wince pasting on his face that drew Edward's attention, briskly. "Vhat?"

"I--" he swallowed, pitch downed with severe pain. He glances down at his stomach, red began to spread and stain his shirt, an ugly blended colour. His fingertips also were drenched in his warm blood.

Edward looked at him, concern in his eyes. His bare hand grabbed Tank's delicately, a warm touch, and pulled just enough as his other hand picked up his gray shirt.

What was revealed, horrified the doctor to say the least. But, nonetheless, the German had seen much worse in being a doctor, and secretly teleporting among places.

A large gash, starting from Tank's hipbone struck in a large tear, stopping just near the opposite ribcage. Edward drew his fingers across the entire gash, a cringe releasing on Dempsey.

Edward noticed, and yanked his hand away. "Sorry." He apologised dully. His right hand held a small silver needle, a long string of thread already slipped inside. He set the needle down carefully, reaching for the bottle of alcohol and cotton and napkins.

The German dabbed each incoming drop of blood with the cotton, and spilt a decent amount of alcohol on the napkin.

Exactly, where had he gotten all these things? Maybe Dempsey just needed to take his mind off of the inbounding pain that would cause him to, maybe, cry. Like a child. Probably bawl in pain. Probably. No promises.

But that wouldn't happen, he knew. He was strong physically, but mentally wasn't precisely his strongest suit.

Tank clenched his gray shirt, just lifted underneath his chin as the German simply pressed the two-wet napkins on the entire gash. Not-so-delicately.

He released an almost blood-curdling scream, that he'd luckily been able to turn into a deep gasp, full of agony. The stinging pain was enough to at least make his eyes water.

Richtofen focused on the needle, next, placing the napkin on the table after he wiped the gash harshly. His hand did not tremble, though the other, younger man had started to.

He sighs. "Just hold as still as you can."

"You don't think I know that, fuckin' nazi?"

"I have a name, Dempshey."

"Yeah;  and zombies eat people," Tank spat back, his grip on his shirt growing tighter till his knuckles paled.

Richtofen paused, the needle a mere inch from piercing Tank's skin, his eyes closed jut ready for the burning pain of being poked.

He opened his baby blues after realising that pain never arrived. He eyed the German, who had been staring at him. "What?"

"You know vhat zombies are?" His green eyes were wide;  interest and shock sparkling in those pupils.

Dempsey raised his eyebrows. "Of course I do, dumbass."

Edward seemed intact, even pristine of the young American's insults thrown his way. His palm sat beneath his chin, resting on his other forearm with the needle still in his fingers.

Tank's eyes remained on the strand of thread hanging from the needle, although he spoke to the German, "But you do not remember me?"

"I didn't even know you or the others existed," replied the young American in a harsh tone. "Why do you all keep asking me that?"

"Zhis does not make any sense . . How vould you not remember me? Ve spent years together, fighting hordes but all you remember are the zombies?"

"Uhh. First, as I said before," said Tank slowly, specifically as he worked his hand to match his annoyed tone, "I have no, fucking, clue-who-the-fuck-you-are. Now stop asking."

The German sighed, realising how stupid it was of an idea to see if he could get the young American to actually remember something, other than those zombies. There had to be an explanation for the marine remembering only those undead creatures, less, his year-long teammates that served nearly as a family.

Tank noticed how the German's face softened, looking hurt although the German hadn't noticed for he was too lost in thought. Tank felt instantly bad, for some reason, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly. "Doc, I . . I'm just not, too keen on the fact that I woke up in the dark, and now I'm with three people I have never seen in my life.

"Surely you would know how terrifying that would be?"

"I suppose," muttered Edward, unsure whether he answered to the young American or himself. His eyes were wide, fingers clasping tightly on the needle.

Dempsey gave him a startled look, a bit of concern nothing the needle start to poke into the palm of his hand, drawing blood.

Nevertheless, the German began to smile. Smile and smiling, weirding the younger man out who wanted to back away.

Had he been smiling at the fact of how the kindness that showed in Dempsey ( before his memory loss ), showed in his clueless state, or that he called him "doc", the nickname he used most.

Either way;  Edward found it a good thing he might've been able to return Dempsey back into Dempsey. If, that made sense.

Though, everything nonsense made sense;  To Richtofen, actually. And that was nice.


	2. DE:  Unravel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maybe that was it. Not the meager weather but on what he could remember, or what he could try to remember. 
> 
> But it was only the lesser, inferior things Dempsey caught himself pondering about;  things like the weather, or washing his hair.

It was clear now, what had happened, not the motive. Anything but the motive was divulged.

Dempsey really didn't understand much, and it took a few repeats to show him to understand steps to build this and that, he got it, ensuingly though.  
Indubitably, his fellow members had strictly proscribed him from leaving Griffin Castle. So he sat, bored on the steps leading into Richtofen's old room.

The name sounded so . . so, mundane? As if once was frequently used, yet again, he didn't recognize anything on or of the man that would sway his mind back into recognition, where he could actually remember if there was anything between them, something important?

. . Ventilating in the man, anyway, in he walked himself holding some shiny blue bow. Dempsey cocked an eyebrow, itching his arm where a bite had been initialed. "The hell is that?"

"It is your bow; it will be important on our journey," informed Edward glacially, handing over the sparkling weapon.

Tank briefly eyed him, taking the weapon nonetheless. Before he could even open his mouth, the doctor curtly beat him to it, "I'd prefer you stay here until you thoroughly heal."

He blinked, at least a few times. He allowed those words to properly decipher before he progressed in annoyance; he was a ( or that's at least what Takeo told him ) marine, right? Why would he just sit inside with a small, insignificant injury?

Tank stared at Edward, at his face, but failed to meet his eyes when Edward had wanted to meet his. Tank had looked into those beryl, intellect eyes of the doctor's when he had looked away, boring of not being able to properly take a heed of what Tank was hiding in his own.

He said no further, wanting to curtain on their 'conversation' and grabbing hastily of the bow ( and what he might've not realized; hesitantly ) stepping up the creaky, aged wooden stairs, into Edward's room. Tank had heard the man bring up his room a little less than several times, heard that there are important, supposedly major confidential things that even Edward probably did not know about in there.  
Edward, Nikolai and Takeo had talked about Dempsey, about what he remembered and what he might conceivably remember. It wasn't a list, just some few things that wouldn't be considered one.

He also mentioned someone by the name of Max, whoever that was. Probably a friend who died, or something.

Tank wondered if he had friends. Maybe he did. He dipped down at himself, implying that if he was a marine, he might've been bound to at least have a few friends, if not, a family.

Unless Tank left willingly into the military, just for the sole purpose of their country, because he believed in having a free, secure place. Maybe he was selected draw?

Dempsey wrinkled his brows at that. It was like they were out to get him, to baffle him with the things they say he already knew, but he clearly didn't. Well, not currently, but insufficiently.

The marine had forgot about the bow he dropped on the bed, which he picked up before making his way to the concealed window. A question formed in his head;  not the simple kinda ones, with a yes-no answer to finish it off;  it was one of those ones that would surely confuse you.

Dempsey blandly pulled the courage within inside him, if there was any to use. Of course such a question, preciously more a decision would stir up redundant, undesirable emotions that he, a bottled-up being would not want to put for show. It was an imperative question, and the least he could do was answer it veraciously. But only when he knew it himself that he was prepared to answer it.

Dempsey felt his heart ache;  it wasn't because he had insulted the man who saved his life, not at all. More likely so, it was because of something;  forcing himself to remember something so he would not worry or fret those three. But also to answer the question, because he couldn't come up with a good enough answer that would satisfy it. But . . why would he care what they felt? Or thought? It had to do with the fact that they knew more about him, Dempsey, than he could grasp on about himself.

Dempsey stepped inside the room, the odor of metal and rotting blood hitting his nostrils. Dempsey slightly sneezed, but he did make it to the door, past the small window and stopping right in front of it.

He ran his gloved finger across the rough, prickly wood planks nailed across the door, pulling at a few in hopes to unlatch some, just enough so he could slip out. The marine slid his hand beneath one plank, his fingers firmly gripping the piece of plank as he used all his durability ( also trying not to cause too much pain ) to extract roughly about seven planks.

Dempsey slid through the diminutive space, but he got through, and was able to feel the brisk, bitter air brush through his dirty-blonde hair, and against his cheeks. The cold didn't bother him, for all he remembered, he always prized the cold rather than the heat.

Maybe that was it. Not the meager weather but on what he could remember, or what he could try to remember. But it was only the lesser, inferior things Dempsey caught himself pondering about;  things like the weather, or washing his hair.

He clawed his fingers through his scraggly, needing-to-be-soaped hair. Remembering something was better than nothing.

He could tell, emphasize, or even carve that into his own skin and bone, but he wouldn't conceive it, regardless the number of failed, bloody attempts. So the marine stood there, pondering on useless things like what the weather would be like tomorrow, because he couldn't remember anything else.

And it wasn't as such a burden as he thought it would regularly be, because he wanted to matter, serve a purpose in whatever the hell they got themselves into.

Maybe he shouldn't have focused too hard on that person's face;  he could feel the haunting details, of the mien that might very well just put a cease to what started it. The face wasn't here to help him, so he shut his eyes and listened to the wind whispering nonsense into his ears.

 **I'll show you the way** , it said, **Only if you guaranteed what I gifted you, as yours.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hhhhhhh I accidentally deleted this work and it got rid of those lovely comments ughhh..
> 
> I guess I really liked how this chapter came out, and I maybe might actually finish it??
> 
> \- K


End file.
